


Sirens

by graphei



Series: Sirens [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics), Gotham City Sirens (Comics)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Drama, Multi, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphei/pseuds/graphei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen months after Gotham watched them take down Hush, Barbara Gordon sees disturbing rumors on the internet. With Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn in Arkham and Catwoman up to her old tricks, is this new threat bad enough to re-unite the Gotham City Sirens?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catch a Catwoman by the Tail

**Author's Note:**

> (c) Mavreen Marra 2014-2016 // All non-original characters remain the property of their respective owners

Selina ran her fingers through her damp hair. After spending an hour in an air duct, the chill in the office was a welcome change. The dance floor’s beat reverberated through the pearlescent grey walls. Four years prior, Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot had abandoned a life of crime to open a nightclub, The Iceberg Lounge. From the safety of the club, he kept his fingers on the pulse of the Underworld, while staying in the good graces of the Gotham authorities. Although his accounts were as pristine as his tuxedo shirt, old habits died hard. The elder statesmen of Rogues stood hunched over a microscope examining her latest haul. On his antique walnut desk, Selina’s iPhone buzzed.

"Get to the Tower." 

The line went dead. 

Selina swallowed her disgust and tucked her phone in her inky blue catsuit. While Barbara Gordon could hardly be described as chatty, that call was curt even for her. Not that she called often. Selina adjusted herself on the desk and turned her attention to the enormous salt water tank, but as the fish glided past in blissful harmony Selina's mind churned. Whatever prompted that call was something Barbara Gordon wanted Catwoman for, and that something was not good.

"They're fake," Cobblepot squawked.

Selina stormed to his microscope and glared at the gems on the stage, her stomach twisting in rage. What appeared to be exemplars of nature’s unbreakable beauty under her loupe revealed themselves as forgeries under higher magnification. Selina’s back cracked when she stood straight, and banked the fake into the garbage before marching away.

"Looks like Kitty got tangled in some string," Oswald chuckled, his rotund belly shaking.

Selina Kyle flipped him off as she stormed out his office door. The back hallways were packed with She strut to the club's exit, the crowd receding like a wave. Beneath the flickering strobe light, time slowed to a crawl. From the corner of her eyes hands reached out to her. 

"Catwoman." 

The murmurs drifted to her ear. 

"Catwoman." 

Most people put on a mask to hide. 

"Catwoman." 

She put on a mask and became a celebrity. 

Selina kept her eyes down. She hated strangers invading her personal space, but the ability to reach out and touch a Rogue was what made The Iceberg Lounge a success. It’s what these people had paid for—a chance to touch a reality beyond their imaginations.

She flinched. 

"I touched her! I touched her." A man waved his hand around to the crowd.

#Catwoman and #GothamsFinest were trending on Twitter by the time Selina Kyle started her motorcycle.

Hammond Clock Tower was one of the oldest structures in Gotham. Located in the historic part of the city, it stood as a sentinel for over two centuries. Selina killed the engine and rolled her motorcycle behind a crumbling brick wall. She crept in the shadows along antique buildings that sat nestled to the tower’s base. The smell of damp cobblestones and moss crept up her nose as she drew closer. The flaking paint resembled a monster’s scales in the dim light. She butted her shoulder against an ancient door and shoved it open. Inside, a naked light bulb clung to a wire,  swaying at the slightest appearance of life . Selina’s nose twitched at the change to drier, stale air. She tugged the elevator’s rickety gate closed, mumbling about tetanus as she did.

Selina arched her back against the elevator’s wall, listening to the gears crank her higher. She drank in the view of her city between the gate’s ornate bars. Moonlight shimmered on the water’s surface like a billion scattered diamonds. Across the Gotham Sound, Arkham Asylum sparkled like a cursed jewel. The red and white glow of traffic from downtown areas snaked along streets. Robinson Park stretched along the periphery of her vision. It stood in stark contrast to the glistening city, save for the few street lamps that resembled fireflies at that height. The platform crawled to a stop. A wheelchair ramp stood propped along the wall.

Stepping from the elevator wide, the floor creaked beneath her feet. The gaps between the wide oak boards resembled uneasy smiles. Strong notes of ozone punctuated the warm smell of wood shavings. The walls trembled with the steady tick of the clock’s arms and hum of Barbara’s super computer. ORACLE—Online Remote Assist Computerized Lifeline Engine—was the main computer system and reason behind Barbara’s code name. Custom built by Wayne Enterprise, the machine’s sole purpose was to crunch enormous amounts of data. Thousands of wires and cords poured through the wall’s two-by-four frame, all surging to the same source.

Selina stalked to the main room and found Barbara slouched in her wheelchair at her desk. On a large screen, mounted from the ceiling, a still frame of security footage glowed. Selina Kyle's face stared back at Catwoman. A shiver slid down her spine.

"You set me up?"

"I had to get your attention somehow." Barbara pivoted in her wheelchair. Deep circles hung below her eyes.

"You could’ve fucking called." Selina unzipped her ink-colored catsuit, slamming her cowl on the table. She threw herself in a chair, lacing her fingers through her hair. 

Barbara glided to the table. She fidgeted like a teenager about to ask her mother for the keys to the car. "Has Ivy ever mentioned a Robert Borland to you?"

Selina looked up. It was an odd question. It was no secret she and Ivy went to lunch once a month, much to the Harley Quinn’s resentment. While not the highlight of Selina’s social calendar, it was pleasant enough. From a quiet corner table they’d raise their glasses to life, but drink to schadenfreude. Selina leaned back in the chair and shook her head. 

"Dr. Robert Borland, a bio-medical engineer, graduated and worked with Woodrue." Barbara laid down stacks of co-authored papers and grizzly autopsy photos of small bodies overwhelmed with fungus and vines. "These kids are linked to a bioweapon Silk Road’s buzzing about, and Borland’s behind it."

Barbara setting her up. The question about Ivy. Selina raised her eyes to the skylight as her stomach fell. Cobblepot was right: she was tangled. But in more ways than one. "And you want me to do what?"

Barbara slid a ferry ticket forward. Its destination: Arkham Asylum.

"No chance in hell."

"I know you and Harley have your differences…"

"Differences?! She’s tried to kill me. Twice." 

"And I realize that, but she was on to something, Selina."

Barbara slid aside the photos revealing a title page stamped as evidence: Drug Tolerance in Abnormal Immunocompetent Individuals by H.F. Quinzel M.D. Selina leafed through the rough draft, Harley’s proofreading marks and notes strewn across each page. While the world knew Harley Quinn had been a doctor, few had ever confronted the eloquent and authoritative words of Dr. Quinzel. 

Selina rubbed her eyes. There was no doubt this was bad. This was so bad the best option was to get Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn released from Arkham to deal with it. The work would be dangerous, but it wasn’t the work that made her stomach twist in apprehension. Her mind surfaced a gruesome memory. It was of the poor soul who mentioned Woodrue’s brilliant science near Harley. While most had enough sense not to breathe that name near Poison Ivy, fewer realized mentioning it to the Mistress of Mischief was just as fatal. By the time the police recovered his body, dental records weren't enough to identify him. 

Selina stretched her hands on her thighs. Her involvement was a foregone conclusion, but that didn’t mean Barbara couldn’t sweeten the situation. "What’s in it for me?" 

"Double your cut from Hush." 

Money. The magic word of Gotham’s Underworld. Whoever said please was the magic word didn’t know any criminals. Please was a word that leaked from the bloodied lips of soon-to-be dead men. 

Selina snatched the ticket off the table. "I’ll catch the first ferry tomorrow."


	2. Zoo Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open locks whoever knocks  
> Knock knock  
> Who's there?

Harleen F. Quinzel, M.D. leaned into the concrete wall, pressing her hand against the minuscule window. Through the bulletproof glass, the night air tingled beneath her fingertips.

“Med cart in five, Freaks!” the guard barked.

The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane dominated Gotham's waterfront. Built by Amadeus Arkham, M.D. in the late 19th Century, it was a profane hybrid of hospital and prison. Over 5,000 inmates made their home within its dank corridors. Included in that number were Gotham's most lethal and infamous criminals, the Rogues.

In spite of the millions spent to keep them in, it was ironic how often they escaped. Even more ironic was the increase in tourism whenever they did. Tourists flooded Gotham for a chance to see their savage grudge matches against each other and a certain dark knight. Enterprising tour guides would add stops to their routes before the police tape was cleared. Politicians and dignitaries were frequent visitors to their ward, nicknamed The Rogues’ Gallery. They’d stroll through, as if they were looking at zoo exhibits.

“Quinn!” Someone banged on the glass. 

“The difference,” Harley thought, “is that they remind patrons not to tap the glass at the zoo.”

It was the nurse’s aide with her evening meds. He’d shoved her medication through the slot and updated her chart while he waited. She jiggled the yellow, oval pills in the cup. “Seroquel. 800mg.”

She raised the cup to him and downed the antipsychotics. The former doctor opened her mouth for an inspection, and the aide moved on to the next.

“Stand by for lights out,” the loudspeaker rang. 

Harley ambled to the concrete slab she called her bed and stretched out. The familiar shadows crept in once the lights flickered off, dancing and playing, rising and falling. The roving guard walked his beat seven times before her mouth went dry. A chemical tingle crept in her veins. The room spun and she heaved. Stringy chicken and gluey potatoes splattered on the floor. She collapsed in her own sickness. Voices and pounding boots swarmed. Fingers to a distant voice wrapped around her wrist. 

“What…?”

Her heavy eyelids fluttered.

“…Seroquel…”

Her racing heart crawled with the chemicals.

“…wrong meds…” 

Harley slipped into a timeless oblivion. It wasn’t until the stench of bleach and urine edged up her nose she realized she had been moved. She was in the general population. Somewhere in the cavernous dark, a disembodied voice hummed Chopin’s Nocturnes. Harley rolled against the shackles to face the bulging cells. The gurney’s wheels squeaked along when voice hissed in the dark.

“Mistress.”

She’d been spotted. The sleeping room stirred to consciousness. Mattresses creaked as their occupants moved to get a closer look. The whispers electrified the air as inmates chanted, “Mistress.” 

The sound crescendoed until a deafening chorus rang out.

“Whoop. Whoooooooooooooop. Wooooooooo.” 

A thousand hyena calls swallowed the room. Through her lidded eyes, multitudes of hands grasping for her through the bars. She glanced up at a guard, sweat shimmering on his temples. The group burst through the double doors, the hallway’s cool air tickling her nose. The inmates roar faded as they grew closer to the infirmary.

“What’s going on?” Harley croaked.

“You’re in the infirmary. You had a reaction.” A blood pressure cuff squeezed her arm. “We’ll keep you overnight for observation.”

Harley scrunched her nose. Reaction? No. That was an overdose. Not that his poor choice of words mattered any as her tired body sink into the mattress. The lumpy hospital bed felt like a cloud after sleeping on the slab for seven months. Before long, the rustling of the paper chart woke Harley up. It was a nurse’s aide checking on her. “How are you feeling, Miss Quinzel?" 

The aide, so engrossed in updating the chart, didn’t see Harley’s shifting hands.

“I’m Doctor Quinzel to you.” 

The young woman didn’t struggle as Harley choked her unconscious. The hollow where her guilt should’ve been ached as she dragged the unconscious girl to the bed. She yanked the staff badge from her scrubs and locked the door from the inside. 

“What have you done?”

Harley turned to face her former mentor, Dr. Joan Leeland. Joan hadn’t changed much in the four years it had been since Harley had seen her. All her former colleagues were forbidden from coming near her.

“Joan, you need to get out.” 

“But—” Joan lifted her hand towards the door. 

“She’s alive. She’ll be safe, I promise.”

An oppressive silence settled between them. Joan tried to speak but no sound came—like she was stumbling over all the questions she wanted to ask, but never could.

“You have ten minutes. Run.”

Joan stood motionless before backing from the hallway. 

In the historic main building, the long, window-filled hallway glowed with moonlight. Harley stopped to drink in the night in all its glory. The world outside had changed seasons almost twice in the seven months she’d been locked away. She walked among the stern portraits of the Arkham family lining the walnut-paneled walls. Behind their somber gazes laid the asylum’s nervous system. 

She paused outside the steel door and punched in a code. “Tsk, Tsk, Doctor,” she chided the painting of Amadeus Arkham. “Four years, and they still haven’t changed my passcode.” 

Behind the door, a guard slouched in his chair asleep. Harley crept through the shadows behind the man. With a flip of her wrists, she snapped his neck and let his body drop to the floor. She smiled at his uneaten lunch. Harley sat in the still-warm chair and scooted to the panel. She kicked her feet up and took a bite of sandwich and hit the main lockdown button. She laughed with her mouth full watching guards throughout the asylum freeze the locks engage.

“Is it just me,” Harley crunched on a potato chip, “or was dinner fucking terrible? Who wants a midnight snack?”

Thousands of hands reached from their cells, and the walls shivered with their screams.

“But, where are my manners? We gotta say Grace first. Bless us, O Father, for these…”

A trapped guard made the Sign of the Cross.

“Yada Yada, One who eats the fastest gets the most. Grace!” Harley slammed the evacuation button. Every cell in the asylum swung open, and the wave of inmates flooded the room. 

The Mistress of Mischief’s reign of terror had begun.

* * *

Barbara listened to the last drops of coffee hit the pot.

“Guardian Zero-Niner, this is Archangel One, message, over.”

She stared at the radio from the corner of her eyes. Archangel One was one of Arkham’s callsigns. While there was frequent radio traffic during the day, the transmissions all but stopped after the last ferry.

“Guardian Zero-Niner, send.” 

“…she’s loose. Over.”

Barbara roared. There was only one inmate they could be referring to. While others were content to escape Arkham, that would never do for Harley Quinn. She escaped with such frequency Gotham Casino allowed gamblers to bet on it. While Harley held many dubious records, her most cherished was being the only person to break out of and into Arkham Asylum. Two days after a warden declared the facility impenetrable, Harley snapped a selfie in his office and spent the rest of the evening club hopping. After he resigned, she sent a framed, autographed picture to him.

Barbara pulled her hair, convinced several grey hairs had Harley’s initials on them. Then again, Harley was the reason she could get grey hair. Barbara growled and rolled back to her desk.

“Harley’d piss herself with joy if she knew she was wrecking your plans.”

Before she could say anything, Selina raised a gloved hand. “It’s all over the radio.”

No sooner did Selina sit down when Dick strut in, tossing his mask on the table. 

“Hey, Har—“

“I know.” Barbara channeled her fury into the keyboard. Selina and Dick’s small talk faded as her eyes fixed on the screen. She did not think about the commands or her fingers in relation to the keys. Output screamed past her eyes on the screen. 

“Holy shit,” Dick choked on his coffee.

“You hacked Arkham?” Selina chimed in.

On the monitors surrounding her desk, the chaos Harley unleashed streamed into the quiet of Hammond Tower. 

* * *

Harley watched her mayhem from a safe height. After hitting the evacuation button, she fled the control room and prowled the staff hallways before climbing to an old fire escape. The tat-tat-tat of a sub-machine gun echoed over the screams and went silent. Bored with watching the carnage, Harley abandoned her perch to search for a weapon.

She stepped through pooled blood, peeking among the corpses. The gore on the wall told the story. The original owner’s face had been degloved after a struggle. The next owner, an inmate, turned on his associates and mowed a few down until his reign of carnage ended with a misfeed. His lifeless eyes stared beyond her, his finger still pulling the trigger. She grabbed her new prize and headed for solitary confinement.

Arkham had several “holes”, or solitary blocks, to house misbehaving inmates. This was not where she or most Rogues went to pay for their sins. Instead, they were banished to Hell—a pit in the bowels of Arkham. The hand-dug cell walls wept murky water, and the steel doors were covered with a century of rust.

Harley clinked the gun’s barrel along the steel doors as she strolled in Solitary Unit Five, reciting: 

“By the twitching of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes

Open locks!

Whoever knocks!  
Knock-knock…”  
“Who’s there?” a voice hissed.

With a flip of a lever, the last lock released. Five of Harley’s gang members staggered from their cells. Her elaborate badge of office, a tattoo of a three-of-diamonds and a Joker, peeked from under her prison shirt on her right bicep. They pranced and whooped down inky corridors to the exit, destroying anything and everything in their path. Harley’s eyes fixed on the door. Her heart pounded in anticipation and cold kissed her hands as she burst through outside. The screams swirled and blew past them. Harley lifted her eyes to the riotous stars and inhaled. Crisp, cool air tickled her nose. Forty feet above them, more inmates rushed the walls to be buzzed down by the machine guns. Their bodies fell like rain drops to the ground.

Just beyond a retaining wall covered in glorious moss was their destination: The Power House. It generated every volt of electricity on the island. Given its importance, it was the most fortified building on the island, and had its own contingent of guards. The group bypassed the main door and headed for the rear fire escape. She peered through a dirty window to see the guards barricaded inside with enough ammunition to make a Tarantino movie.

“Here’s the plan,” she whispered. “I’ll distract them. You go in shooting. Capisce?”

The men nodded before hoisting her to the roof. Harley slid on her belly to a hatch and dropped onto a walkway from above.

“It’s Quinn!” a guard yelled. 

Bullets chased her down the walkway. Harley leapt for a hanging pipe and swung behind a half wall. Bullets showered her with concrete fragments as they shot over her head. Her plan worked, though. It bought the other men enough time to move forward, but she needed something to even the odds, and fast. The thwack of lead through flesh surrounded her. Her eyes locked on a decrepit box. Two convicts screamed as they bled out on the floor. Harley scrambled low, bullets whizzing over her head.

“Please. Please. Please.”

Another convict dropped to the floor. The box disintegrated under her touch exposing brittle steel canisters, stenciled,  M18 SMOKE RED. 

“Jackpot!”

The pin popped out and red smoked hissed and spit. She flung the smoke grenade over the wall. Moving into the red plume, blood spray mingled with the smoke as the remaining prisoners exacted their revenge. 

“Fuckin’ pig,” an inmate spat on a guard’s corpse.

Harley rummaged in a guard’s cargo pocket for his keys and gave them a triumphant jingle.  

“Let’s go,” she commanded.

Hair on their arms stood on end as they walked through the bare, humming wires. Ancient machinery sputtered and belched hot air. On a dusty platform near the rear of the building was spinning electrical generator. The men hopped up on the platform to inspect the antiquated motor.

“What now, Harley?"

"You die."  

Their lives, and the power to the asylum, were cut in a haze of bullets.

* * *

The blood drained from Barbara’s face as Arkham flickered into darkness. Connections dropped like dominos on her screen. All except one. A guard had set up a network that was hooked into the security camera’s backup batteries. Barbara cycled through the cameras hoping to to catch any movement before the batteries went dead. “Christ, Harley, where did you go?!”

“She knows that place like the back of her hand, even in the dark,” Selina added.

Before Barbara’s fingers could strike another key, Harley appeared on screen, strolling down the center hallway of the Rogue’s Gallery. Her frame cast lithe shadows on the floor as she stopped in front of a cell. Closing her eyes, she reached out and touched the glass. 

“Why would she go back?” Dick asked. “Joker isn’t kept on the Gallery.”

Barbara switched to another security camera to get a better angle. Deep within the cell, the darkness moved and from the shadows a woman’s hand reached back.

“Ivy,” Barbara gasped. While everyone knew Harley and Ivy worked together on occasion. Together, they were more successful, more destructive, but no one could’ve suspected this level of coordination. Barbara flipped through the evidence pile in her mind. Both women had established patterns in their crimes, yet there were times…instances that whispered of deeper influence of one on the other. 

Harley slide the cell open and tugged Ivy into the light. Ivy, with her arms resting on Harley’s shoulder, twirled a blonde curl around her finger. Harley ran her hands over Ivy’s hips and waist and pressed their lips together.

“Holy shit.” 

The computers’ fans whirred in Hammond Tower as Barbara, Dick, and Selina watched Ivy and Harley burn off months of sexual frustration.

“How…?” Dick stuttered. “How is she not dead?” As dangerous as a long-term relationship with Joker was, Poison Ivy’s lips were certain death.

“Did you know anything about this?” Barbara glared at a gobsmacked Selina Kyle. 

“You think I watched them make out?”

Barbara raked her fingers through her hair, trying to squeeze answers from her brain. “Do you think anyone else knows?”

“No—no way,” Selina grasped for words. “There’d be war.” Gotham’s underworld would tear itself a part if word the poison that had no exception did, and that exception was the Mistress of Mischief. 

Harley and Ivy had ended their kiss on screen. Barbara zoomed the camera in on Harley’s face. Her lips were still attached, unlike the last man who had kissed Ivy. Ivy stepped back, their hands still linked. Barbara furrowed her brows, frustrated she couldn’t read their moving lips. They watched Ivy take another step back, raising their hands before letting go. She blew a kiss to Harley and vanished into the dark. The connection dropped, leaving the frozen image of Harley Quinn in the spotlight.


	3. Shell Game

“We’re in the fourth hour of the riots at Arkham Asylum…”

The TV in Christine “Stytch” Burens room threw strange shadows on the walls. Only she and her fellow insomniacs were up watching the breaking news at four o’clock in the morning. Unlike those watching out of boredom or morbid curiosity, she had a vested interest in the outcome. The room went black with a commercial break.

“…Come to Christine’s Auto Body…”

Stytch clicked the mute and slammed her eyes shut.

“One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.”

Everyone in Gotham knew her. Christine’s Auto Body served the peaceful citizens for seven years from her shop in Grosver’s Pointe. Her Gotham was the one you didn’t see advertised in the brochures. In an urban desert of streets marred with potholes and empty strip malls, her shop was an oasis. But the petite, blonde woman with the helium-high voice in the commercials was not her, no more than the average citizens of Gotham her real clients. Instead, that shop and the woman on TV were pieces in an elaborate shell game. 

“Fifteen Mississippi.” 

She opened her eyes. 

Instead, Stytch catered to Gotham’s illustrious law-breakers. Stytch was part of an elite few that Rogues trusted enough to handle their personal affairs. Under the constant threat of capture, either by the police or death from rivals, they had few options for hiring help. While Sherman “The Broker” Fine found homes and funneled weapons, and Jenna “The Carpenter” Duffy handled renovations, Stytch was the mad genius seamstress and mechanic who transformed them into icons—

Harley Quinn’s black and red diamonds. 

Catwoman’s legendary catsuit. 

Two-Face’s split suits. 

All born of her imagination. The same care she took in crafting their costumes, extended to their vehicles. Not just status symbols, their cars and motorcycles were customized to their unique needs for safety and performance. But Stytch and her team did not stop there. In addition to costumes and exotic vehicles, Stytch and her team handled basic necessities: groceries, dry cleaning, and even acted as a food delivery service.

Her brown hair rioted without one of her signature pink and white wigs taming it in place. Her cutoff t-shirt showcased two full sleeves of tattoos of Disney characters.

Stytch rolled over, pursing her lips at the three picture frames on her nightstand. The faces of her best clients and best friends stared back at her. And most of the time, they were one in the same. Harley and her on the flat track, throwing deuces in trucker hats; Stytch glomping Ivy in Robinson Park at her birthday party two years ago; Selina and her laughing in ugly Christmas sweaters, ribbons and bows on their heads.

“…Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, and Mad…” 

She glanced at the phone.

“…unaccounted for…” 

Dead silent, even though she expected it to buzz with a text.

The SWAT helicopter’s pounding blades echoed on the TV. In the corner of her room, Bud and Lou, Harley’s beloved spotted hyenas, slept in their den. Bud kicked his brother awake. A yawn broke Lou’s consciousness. Stytch peeked at them from her bed. Lou stood and walked to the edge of their enclosure, carrying one of Harley’s old sweatshirts with him. 

The phone buzzed off the nightstand and slipped under her bed. Stytch rolled to the floor grasping for it. An unknown number flashed across the screen.

“To Docks. Ivy’s car to RP. Will get boys later.”

Stytch squealed, turning in tight circles on the floor. Bud and Lou whooped their excitement as she leapt to her feet and ran from her room.

“Wake the fuck up!” Stytch pounded on bedroom doors down the hall. Bleary-eyed men staggered from their rooms in boxers and t-shirts. 

“Frankie! Ivy’s car needs fresh bio-diesel and a detail. It’s heading to Robinson Park!”

“Robinson?” Frankie trailed behind Stytch like a puppy. “Ivy always stops at Mayfair first.”

“I wonder how long they’ve been sitting on this?” Pony-boy chimed in.

“You know the rule: We don’t ask. They don’t tell. Oh! Their grocery lists are in the drawer and for fuck’s sake, bring the reusable bags. Ivy’ll bitch otherwise.” Stytch stopped in the middle of the hallway and surveyed her men. 

Someone was missing. 

“Baby-face! Baby-face! Toddy!”

A man shambled from a room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What the fuck, Stytch. It’s early.”

“Harley’s bike needs a full tune up and detail.” Her voice dropped to its usual rumble.

“Isn’t she in Arkham?”

“Was in Arkham, Bitch. Get moving!” 

Stytch hopped down the stairs two at a time, twirling when her feet hit the ground. Her imposing frame cast arabesques against the floor on the way to the workbench. Overhead, the pound of footsteps echoed and a stream of men sprinted past, zipping up the flies on their jeans as they went. Stytch cranked Fall Out Boy and inhaled the aroma of leathers and engine oil. On a wall, bolt upon bolt of fabrics and trims hung with meticulous care. On the other, the waiting area contained two tufted black leather couches faced each other, flanked by end tables crafted from rims. 

Overhead doors groaned open. Cold white light illuminated the shop as Ivy’s cardinal red Mercedes Benz roadster roared in, followed by the scream of Harley’s Ducati. Frances “Frankie” White II hopped out of the car and began washing seven months of dust from its body. A master mechanic, tattoo artist, and all around handyman, he was one of the first people Stytch had met after arriving in Gotham. 

Todd “Baby-Face” Si was the newest arrival to Stytch’s Shop and had established himself as an unparalleled motorcycle repair and fabrication technician. He set to work disassembling the motorcycle in preparation for its cleaning. As the men worked, Stytch grabbed Bud and Lou’s collars from her desk and returned to her room. They squealed their hellos as she entered their den.

“Boys,” Stytch patted their haunches, “time to gussy you up.”

With their black and red collars around their necks, Stytch trotted them to the workshop. Sitting in the middle of the floor, she brushed the Zambian twins as they supervised the work below. Not a single strand of fur was out of place on either hyena when Stytch had finished with them.

James “Pony-Boy” Alden returned when both vehicles were being detailed with a cotton swab. Blackberries, dark chocolate, and thick-cut steaks topped Ivy’s must have grocery items, while Harley demanded brie, honeydew, and three boxes of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. 

With the work complete, the exotic vehicles were loaded on flatbed trucks and covered for their journey through Gotham. Bud and Lou tugged on their leashes watching the trucks disappear around the corner. They traded grunts, as if asking each other when their Mistress would arrive.

“Soon,” Stytch scratched Lou’s neck. “She’s coming home soon.”


	4. Power Lunch

Barbara squirmed in her wheelchair as she studied the traffic on the street. She made sure to be twenty minutes early. Poison Ivy had a reputation for punctuality that would make Deutsche Bahn jealous. Le Petit Cochon was a small bistro on Claverton Street in the trendy Mayfair neighborhood. Ivy was often spotted there on lazy afternoon enjoying a bowl of bread pudding.

Barbara watched a gleaming, red Mercedes Benz park across the street. Ivy appeared first, followed by Harley. Her red mane was pulled into a side braid, while Harley’s blonde locks were down. In jeans and blouses, there wasn’t a stitch of their trademark personas in their appearance. No one seemed to care—or notice—as the pair crossed the street.

"Ignorance is bliss," Barbara muttered.

Harley took the chair closest to the wall, while Ivy took the seat in front of her. They sat in silence, locked in a staring contest, until the waiter filled their water glasses and left. Barbara wasn’t sure if the tremor in his hand was from the cold pitcher or if he recognized two of Gotham’s Crime Queens. While he scurried away, she slid a folder to Ivy.

Ivy wilted the moment she opened it, her dazzling green eyes turned mournful as she flipped through the pictures. Harley coiled in her chair like a snake, her ice cold glare sending a familiar tingle up Barbara’s arms. She’d stared into those haunting blue eyes countless times, and now caught the glimmer of something new: protectiveness. 

Ivy closed the folder and steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. "What’s your plan?"

Barbara’s chest swelled. With three simple words, Ivy confirmed her suspicions and willingness to help. But, as vital as Ivy was to the success of this mission, she had an immediate need for Harley. Barbara stilled her breath, scraping her fingertips along the papers. "Stop him. Cure them."

She pulled the papers up and slid them to Harley. Barbara watched the rosy color flee from Harley’s cheeks as she came face-to-face with the ghost of her past. Medical License Renewal: Out of Practice 2 Years with Disciplinary Record.

"I can’t practice medicine." 

"Who are you trying to fool?" She couldn’t help but laugh at the disgraced physician, whose Brooklyn accent had vanished. She always had a hunch Harley hammed it up for the media. It wasn’t until that fateful day, when The Mistress of Mischief knelt beside her and whispered, "You don’t die today, Batgirl," did Barbara find out how much.

Harley clutched a butterknife, twirling it between her knuckles. The blade spun around, shining light into the dark corners of the cafe. Back and forth, a delicate balance in her hands.

Barbara laid out Harleen Quinzel’s storied academic record: 

Cornell University. Biology: Neurobiology & behavior, summa cum laude. 

Yale Medical. 

Litz Prize in Psychiatry. 

"Passed your internal medicine boards with flying colors. Your program director was still singing your praises."

"What did you tell Dr. Dakin?" 

The panic in Harley’s voice was palpable. It raised a possibility Barbara hadn’t thought of before. Harley’s hyperactivity on social media was a ploy to keep people from taking a closer look at her private life. Given the rumor mill in Gotham was accurate and ever churning, the fact she and Ivy had hid their affair this long proved her tactic effective.

"Oh." Barbara drawled out her reply. "Nothing. Said it was a reference check." 

Harley let the butterknife drop, relaxing in her seat. 

With Harley relaxed once again and Ivy appearing eager, it was time to seal the deal. "Do it, and you’ll stay out of Arkham with double your cut from Hush." Barbara felt a wave of triumph wash over her, waiting for Harley or Ivy to speak.

"I don't want your money, Barbara." Ivy drummed her fingernails against the tablecloth.

Barbara locked eyes with Ivy, feeling as if the floor had dropped from beneath her wheelchair. Judging by the smile creeping across Ivy’s face, she was deriving a pathological amount of enjoyment in turning the tables. Money was the last thing Pamela Isley needed. An heiress in her own right, her family’s fortune rivaled that of the Wayne’s and Cobblepot’s in Seattle. 

Caught between a new bio-weapon and Poison Ivy, Barbara had no room to negotiate. She gathered her breath and nodded a man’s life away. "Fine, but there won’t be a repeat of last October."

Ivy rolled her eyes.

While the Gotham City Sirens battled Hush, a gang war had erupted between the Dragon’s Claw and Odessa Mob. While Rogues didn’t hide their annoyance, none interfered. The unspoken rules between organized crime and Rogues involved staying out of the other’s business. Both gangs shattered those rules when fighting spilled into Robinson Park, triggering Poison Ivy’s swift and grand retaliation. A GNN traffic helicopter first spotted her infamous vines hurling gangsters like rag dolls in Robinson Park. It took her four hours to do what the Gotham City Police Department failed to do in weeks. 

"The park had a pest problem. I took care of it." 

"Anyway." Barbara pivoted the conversation. "Do we have deal?"

Ivy gave a single nod to her head, but Harley remained quiet and still, her eyes locked on mound of paperwork. 

Barbara reached into her bag for a pen and held it out. "Do we have a deal, Doctor?"

The world around her faded into the background as Harley took the pen from her hand. She held her breath as the Mistress of Mischief signed her full, legal name to the paperwork: Harleen Frances Quinzel. Unlike the scrawl of other doctors, her signature was legible, even deliberate. 

Harley dropped the pen and reached for the water. "We done?"

"No." Barbara tucked the prized papers in her bag and braced for the last bit of news she had to share. Her mouth open and closed, trying to find the right words to say. "When I heard you’d gotten out, I hacked into Arkham’s network and… Selina and I saw you release Ivy from her cell."

Harley choked on the water.

Ivy’s eyes went wide. 

There were dozens of questions Barbara wanted to ask, but the one she wanted to ask more than any was the one that could never cross her lips: how was Harley not dead? Poison Ivy’s kiss was lethal, absolute, capable of melting flesh from a face. Pathologists found varying amounts of poisons in all of Ivy’s victims, hinting she possessed a terrifying level of control. Yet here Harley Quinn sat, her cheeks rosy from her coughing jag. 

Barbara peered in the water glass. Only shards of ice cubes remained near the surface. She cleared her throat. "Now we’re done."


	5. Paying the Price

To the untrained ear, Stytch’s shop was jumble of noise, but to its proprietor there was no sweeter sound. The steady staccato of her sewing machine was punctuated by the whir of an impact wrench. The hiss of a paint gun contrasted with the solo the cash had in the counting machine. The chorus of swearing men rounded out the symphony when the melody broke. Stytch snapped her head up, her eyes hunting for the individual who had stopped playing their part. Her eyes zeroed in on Baby-Face staring at a security screen.

On the security screen, Harley and Selina were grappling on the ground, trading punches. She dashed for the stairs. A million and two thoughts flooded her mind and not one was good. As her hand stretched out for the doorknob, Selina shoved through.

"Gordon must've bribed the shit out of you."

"Blackmail's more like it."

This would not be a happy reunion. Much like a rock band, the Sirens performed flawlessly for the crowds and devolved into a brawl backstage. The memories of screaming matches and bloodied noses rushed back. The media speculated gangsters were landing lucky hits, but the truth was much simpler. Harley and Selina had tussled in the shop.

Harley came through the door next, hot on Selina’s heels. "Where’s Mama’s babies?"

Stytch tilted her head towards a far corner of the shop where she kept her personal projects. Away from the spray of sparks, she transformed a Humvee’s frame into a hyena jungle gym. There she’d work through the night while Bud and Lou played for hours by her side. The twins were a constant reminder of her friend who’d often stop by for midnight talks, but not everyone adored the Zambian siblings. To the rest of the staff—and the world—they were Harley Quinn’s most feared accomplices. Bud and Lou jumped past Selina burying Harley beneath a mass of wiggling, squealing hyena. In that moment, riding a unicorn on an tidal wave of glitter could not compare to the joy Stytch felt.

Ivy sauntered in next, smiling at the happy reunion on the floor.

"Jervis was here?"

Selina’s question shattered the blissful moment. While all Rogues commanded respect through fear, Jervis "Mad Hatter" Tetch’s pedophiliac tendencies were disturbing even by their standards.

"You let Jervis out?" Ivy smacked Harley in the arm. 

Harley gave a rueful smile as she pet Bud’s haunches. 

"Crouching Genius, Hidden Psycho dropped it off while I was asleep," Stytch groused. She waved her hands, motioning them to the stairs and away from Jervis’s antique Rolls Royce. 

As the group ambled to the seating area, Pony Boy appeared carrying a tray of tarts and a pot of tea. Although time had passed, the scene remained unchanged with each player on their mark. Ivy and Selina gravitated towards their respective spots on the couch. Harley reclined on the floor as Bud and Lou set about grooming her. Stytch took her seat in her chair. Stytch presided from a chromed-out Queen Anne style chair. Etchings of carousel horses, car logos framed the black velvet tufted seat.

Stytch leaned forward and grabbed a tart from the tray. "What shit did Gordon drag you into this time?" 

"Why do you think she’s involved?" Harley’s eyebrow arched.

"Because this looks like the start of one of her famous jokes."

Stytch looked at Harley, but there was no tell to her expression. No smile or smirk; no twinkle in her eye. Stytch turned to Selina, hunting for reassurance in her face and found none.

Ivy poured a cup of tea. "Robert Borland is continuing the experiment Jason did on me, but he’s using children."

Stytch sank into her chair. There was only one Jason Ivy spoke of and she fed _that_ Jason to a mutant Venus Flytrap. Although the name Robert Borland didn’t ring any bells, the connection to Woodrue and his line of work was all she needed. "Why kids?"

Ivy’s eyes focused on some distant point as she sipped her tea. "When I found Jason’s notes, he hypothesized the experiment on me failed because I was too old."

Stytch gnawed on her thumb nail to process the thoughts in her head, but Selina's phone interrupted.

"At Stytch’s."

All eyes turned to Selina.

"All right." Selina examined her finger nails. "Send me the list and I'll head out in a minute."

Harley sat up and stretched. "Where does Gordon have you sniffing?"

Stytch’s stomach sank. The question was innocent, but the tone in Harley's voice indicated otherwise: she was fishing for details. Her appetite for information was second only to her thirst for control, and Selina would have none of it. Stytch winced as Selina grabbed her duffle bag and stomped to a changing room.

"Every club you can't go to." 

Shots fired.

"How I've missed your non-answers," Harley blasted back.

Stytch pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d rather stand in line at the DMV than be caught between them—not that they always feuded. There were moments of camaraderie, when both seemed to remember they were more than their infamous alter egos. Those were the moments that buoyed her over these rough patches.

Stytch swung around in her chair and locked eyes with Selina. She caught a flash of anger that relented. 

"Seven-twenty is my last stop." Selina let the bag drop from her hand and turned, leaning against the changing room’s frame.

Stytch swallowed hard. "That’s gang turf now. The Odessa controls it."

An impact wrench fractured the silence of the shop.

The Odessa mob was one of Gotham's oldest and most vicious gangs. If they were aware of this new experiment, it would trigger an arms race. If that wasn't enough, they held a grudge against Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. If they had an inkling that the Sirens were operating again and Catwoman appeared, it wouldn’t end well.

Stytch wrinkled her forehead and sank in her chair. Worry was the price she paid to be friends with them. A dark corner of her mind chanted, _One wrong step. One miscalculation. One day their skill won’t save them._

Harley ran her fingers through Lou’s fur. "Be careful. It'll be a shit-show if they find out."

Selina threw back the curtains to the changing room and vanished inside. "Can’t be any worse than you."

Stytch rolled her eyes. Selina wouldn’t have any of Harley’s concern, either.

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

Before Harley could return fire, Ivy stood, signaling she had her fill of the sniping. "We should get going."

Ivy whistled for Bud and Lou to follow and they obeyed her, leaving their Mistress brooding on the floor. They moseyed past Stytch, and she dropped her hand to run her fingers along the ridge of fur on their backs.

The soft thump of Ivy’s footsteps mixed with the scratch of Bud and Lou’s nails on the stairs. Harley rested her hands on her knees, her eyebrows knitted together.

Stytch poked Harley with her foot. "You’re brooding like a Bat."

Harley faked a smile as she stood and followed in Ivy’s wake. The front door slammed shut, but there was an echo from the side door. Outside, a spray paint can rattled and hissed. Selina was blowing off some steam by adding another tag to a wall. 

Alone, Stytch pulled a bottle of tequila from behind her chair and drained it.


	6. Expectation and Potential

Harley climbed into bed and glanced at the alarm clock. It was eleven. The perfect time to begin a night of hell raising. But, now, there would be none of that for the foreseeable future. Instead, the words of Doctor Joan Leeland's offer in her letter haunted her: 

_High expectations for a physician of your potential._

Expectation and potential. 

Those words had been a straightjacket for twenty-six years of her life. Within moments of arriving at Arkham, Dr. Leeland’s expectations became clear: fix everything. She toured the general population, teaming with the lives society didn’t want. Their only crimes were being sick, or poor, or the wrong color—

Or all the above. 

They lived—but mostly died—at the whim of the physicians who didn’t bother to hide their cruelty. She’d eat her lunch, watching guards pour inmates’ cremains into the sea. Within months, the jacket was ratcheted so tight she couldn’t breathe. The night she let him loose was the night she left all that behind. 

Not that it mattered anymore. 

The straightjacket was back and now Barbara Gordon controlled how tight it would be pulled. 

Ivy’s gentle humming lulled her from the dark carnival of her thoughts. She stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth before bed, like always. A creature of habit, but it was part of her charm, too. In the swirling chaos of Harley’s life, Ivy and her routines were a treasured constant. 

After dinner, Ivy’d vanish into her greenhouse, coaxing several varieties back from the brink of extinction. Before bed, she’d make one last turn around the greenhouse, as if saying good night to the flowers. With the violets and roses tucked in, she’d slip into bed, their heady scent still clinging to her skin.

Harley stared at a picture of them on the dresser and slouched into the memory. Ivy had been photographing flowers, when Harley had snuck up and kissed her cheek. Somehow, Ivy managed to turn the camera to catch the moment. If she told the world Poison Ivy was playful and sentimental (and afraid of spiders), she’d be remanded to Arkham, again. Not that she would. Their affair—Harley wrinkled her nose at the word, yet no other was right for what they had— was her last shred of privacy, the hill she’d die on. Now two more people shared her secret, and sharing was never her strong point. 

"Harls," Ivy mumbled through toothpaste. "You’re scowling,"

And she couldn’t kill them, either.

Harley gnawed on the inside of her cheek. Stytch probably knew. 

Ivy spit in the sink.

Then again, what didn’t Stytch know?

The light clicked off, blanketing them in familiar darkness. The picture frame gleamed in the moonlight. The mattress shifted as Pamela slid into bed, her body throwing shadows on the wall. A muscle in her gut tightened from resentment. In less than twenty-four hours, her plans had been shot to shit.

You’re being selfish.

Harley squirmed, uncomfortable with her conscious. It wasn’t Ivy’s fault those plans changed, and, if she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t Barbara’s fault, either. Instead, the blame rested squarely with the man who tortured one of the most important people in her life. 

The ticking clock chipped away at the night. In the morning, her day would revolve around the dismal probability of mortality. Weight-based pediatric dosages, Mallampati assessments, and extrinsic coagulation cascades circled in her head.

FVII contacts TF, forming TF-FVIIa. TF-FVIIa activates FIX and FX. FVII is activated by thrombin, FXIa, FXII, and…FX?

No, that wasn't right. Harley furrowed her brow and started over. Her stomach ratcheted tighter.

FVII is activated by thrombin, FXIa, FXII, and…

Her eyes went wide in the dark as her mind drew a blank. She knew coagulation cascades by heart—she had aced that exam—and now, there was a gaping hole in her once flawless knowledge. Her mind flitted through her medical trivia memory banks. If she forgot something as basic as a coagulation cascade, what else had she forgot? Her teeth clenched and stomach quivered as fear cloaked itself with doubt.

_Whatever you don't remember now, you can look up. No one expects you to have all the answers._

It was too late for such rationality. She inhaled quick, but a hiccup escaped. And another. And another. Soon, volleys of hiccups rocked her frame.

Ivy rolled over.

"Sh—it."  Harley hid her face, disgusted her inner psychiatrist didn't manifest sooner.

Without a word, Pamela pulled herself from bed and vanished around the corner. The sound of running water trickled from the bathroom. 

"You only get hiccups like this when you're nervous."

"I'm n—t nervous!"

Harley rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillows. Footsteps padded around the room and stopped in front of her side of the bed. She opened an eye to find Ivy offering a glass of water. It was impossible to hide anything from her, as if Pamela could thumb through the pages of her mind and stop at the paragraph, the precise sentence, of her thoughts. Harley snatched the glass to cure her raging hiccups.

The light clicked off and Ivy crawled back into bed as she gulped the cold water. Her hiccups were gone, but the doubt, like the stray water droplet in the bottom of the glass, remained. She’d tilt her wrist and watch the droplet chase the moonlight in circles. "Can we save them?" 

Harley’s eyes fluttered shut as Pamela’s hand drifted over to give her stomach a rub. "I don’t know, but we have to try."


	7. The Man in the Alley

Selina batted at an ice cube with a straw. It was one in the morning and she had her fill of club hopping around Gotham. Barbara sent her traipsing through several nightclubs in the vain hope she’d hear something—anything—about the new experiment. On the one hand, it would be a lead and needed validation for Barbara. On the other, it would mean the gangs were aware of it, and that their work all the more treacherous. While Selina could float across gang territory without fear, Harley and Ivy had no such luxury. Even if there was no direct involvement between Borland and a gang, every gang in Gotham harbored grudges against them both and would stop at no cost to interfere with anything they were doing. If there was direct involvement… Selina’s stomach twisted at the thought. 

The bartender watched her yawn, amazed to catch Catwoman doing something so human. When the DJ changed sets, she slapped a twenty on the bar and snaked through the crowd toward the exit. It was late, and she had an appraisal at ten.

The bouncer nodded his deference and held open the door as the Catwoman passed by. The brisk air was a welcome change from the stifling club. It had rained since she arrived, giving the pavement a sheen. She walked along the alley’s wall, the only sound was the gentle splash of her footsteps against a car alarm’s wail in the distance. Two thoughts turned over in her head: One, she’d be the one giving Barbara the not-so-good news. Contrary to popular opinion among Rogues, she despised being the bearer of bad news, but circumstance often forced her into the role. Two, in forty-two minutes—flat—she’d be back in bed. Silver linings and all.

"Calm the fuck down," a man’s voice hissed from the dark.

Selina braced the wall and peeked around the edge. 

A man ran his fingers through a mop of blonde curls as he paced in a dead end.

"We gotta be careful with this shit," his voice echoed. "It’s high value."

Selina stalked forward, shrouded in shadow, and crouched next to a dumpster for a better look. His frame cast long shadows on the ground. She slid out her monocle camera for a closer look. 

"We gotta keep Borland happy. Understood?" The man spun on his heel. Wire-rim glasses framed a heavy brow and a week’s worth of stubble clung to a square jaw. Average, with exception to his clothes. His crisp pink shirt was tucked into grey pinstripe trousers that fell to the perfect break over his shoes. This man, whoever he was, didn’t look like he hung out in alleys often. Selina snapped a handful of pictures and tucked the monocle away.

"Just make sure they're at the drop tomorrow."

The man jammed the phone in his back pocket and stomped past. In the distance, the bouncer walked outside and lit a cigarette. Unblinking, she watched the man walk away.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

He walked in such a straight line he appeared to be marching in place. Selina clenched her jaw. An orange dot from the bouncer’s cigarette glowed.

Don’t go in. Don’t go in.

Smoke wafted into the alley.

The man walked and hopeful anxiety bubbled in her throat, that somehow, against all odds, her thoughts could change events.

The man turned, and the bouncer held open the door for him.

Selina bit her tongue and slid down the brick wall. The taste of copper was the perfect accompaniment to her disappointment. If the Odessa didn’t know already, it was only a matter of time.

Willing herself to stand, she trotted to her car. Behind tinted glass and locked doors, she peeled off her hood and rubbed her eyes. Her doubt scolded her. _You’re getting too old for this shit_. She laughed. Her demons had her mother’s voice. The car started with a snarl. The turn signal counted the beats as she turned from an alley on to Prince Street. She tapped the screen to dial Barbara while she rolled to a stop at a red light.

"You get anything?" The phone didn’t have a chance to ring before she answered.

"Yep." Selina stared at the light. "We’re fucked."


End file.
